


No Place in Heaven

by teaDragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling, Despair, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, dramatic desert imagry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19023898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: In the aftermath of the plagues, Aziraphale nearly Falls.Something prevents him from doing so.





	No Place in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on my tumblr

The sand was cold under his bare feet, coarse grains biting painfully into his soles with each weary, stumbling, shifting step. 

He’d lost his sandals somewhere. He couldn’t remember when, or where. It didn’t matter. 

It didn’t matter.

All around him the desert stretched, endless and unchanging across the rolling dunes, deep purple and blue under the dome of the night sky. The stars above shone a fierce white, like eyes, watching impassive and distant.

It was cold. All heat of the day was long gone, evaporated with the sun, nothing but a memory, as if from some other life, some other time before, _before_ —

Aziraphale didn’t know how long he’d been walking. It had been dark when he’d started, but that meant very little. Everything had gone dark, the sun monstrously blotted out, not even the slightest trace of light escaping when the darkness had come, thick and heavy with despair, last and worst of them all. 

That had rather been the point.

He had needed to get away, away from the dying city, from the sound of it, the noise of it, of suffering, of grief, away from the maddening terror he’d thought he’d choke on, away from his own kind that were _responsible_ —

A wave of anger crashed through him, flaring bright and fierce, defiant in the face of it all. It burned right through, flickering out into grief, heavy and thick in his lungs, each unnecessary breath a painful, terrible ache in his chest. 

The plagues had fallen over Egypt— _devouring, choking, cloying_ —taking everything from the city he’d loved, the people he’d lived among—leaving nothing but horror and death its path.

There had been nothing he could do to stop it.

But he’d tried, oh he’d _tried_ , and that made it somehow all the worse. 

At first he couldn’t believe they’d actually go through with it. The plagues were intended as a bluff. Perhaps some show of power might be used to sway the Pharaoh— but nothing so terrible as _that_. Heaven would never stand for such horror, such widespread suffering and despair. 

Or so he’d thought.

They hadn’t even told him they were going through with it. There had been rumours but Aziraphale had dismissed them as such. It was only when screams filled the air and water turned to blood that he realized they really would go that far.

For such powerful miracles (miracles! How could they bear it?) Heaven had called upon the more powerful Choirs to see it done. He’d felt the divine presence of several Cherubs nearby, watching impassively as chaos broke out all through the city.

Aziraphale had marched right up to them and demanded an explanation. This could not be the will of Heaven. It simply couldn’t. 

But it was. They’d told him.

And deep down something inside of him had violently recoiled, refused to believe it.

He’d argued. He’d yelled. He’d demanded they see reason. He may have cursed, may have said some things no angel wishing to remain as such should ever say to their superiors. Aziraphale didn’t care. Not with so many souls condemned to death and suffering at the behest of their King. 

Finally, right when one of the Cherubs was actually reaching for his sword to be rid of him, Aziraphale left, agitated and disgusted and shaking so badly he could barely see.

This was _wrong_. Every inch of his soul knew it to be.

Desperate, Aziraphale had gone Above. There was still time to stop it. Surely this one plague was enough? The Pharaoh was shaken, his people terrified. It would be the work of moments to persuade him to let the Israelites go. This had to be some mistake, some miscalculation. 

It _had_ to be. 

He just had to find someone who would listen, someone who could stop it all before it was too late. Aziraphale had been on earth the longest of them all, his word must hold some weight in human affairs. 

At first he was heartened to be granted audience with a counsel, one overseen by Gabriel no less. They had been close before, Gabriel and he, back when Aziraphale had been a Cherub, before the Fall and before the Garden. They had been very close once. Aziraphale had often wondered if something more might have come of it had he not been stationed on earth. As it was, there was no one in Heaven he trusted more. Despite the distance, Aziraphale had tried to send messages outside of their official reports to his friend, telling him about earth and asking after Gabriel himself.

He’d never received anything back.

All hope of changing their minds were quickly lost.

Gabriel was indifferent. There was something patronizing, almost mocking in the way he looked down at him, the way all the high ranking angels did, pristine and immaculate in their shimmering white robes, contrasted against Aziraphale’s own, patched and windswept and dishevelled. 

And as Aziraphale had stood there, surrounded by the golden white light of heaven—that for so long had meant the love of his Father —begging for mercy on behalf of the humans and finding only cold indifference in the faces of his siblings, of someone he considered a close and personal friend—he felt his heart begin to break. 

Gabriel explained it was necessary, these plagues. The Pharaoh was not to be softened. They had taken pains to harden his heart—all ten plagues would be carried out. They knew best. He explained Aziraphale was not to interfere, and should he contact them again and waste their time in such a way he would be removed from his post and Corrected. Gabriel explained he was to mind his own business and Do As He Was Told, and to think _very_ carefully the next time he questioned Heaven’s authority. 

A Principality was a far way down from the rank of Cherub, but there was always further to Fall.

Through clenched teeth Aziraphale had thanked him for his time and left, anger bleeding into shock and hurt. Betrayal. Gabriel hadn’t spared him an extra glance, not a smile, not a single kind word—nothing. Nothing for all their years of friendship. Nothing to suggest they had ever been anything other than associates, one firmly above the other in rank and importance.

Something inside of him had broken. 

The hopelessness of the situation began to sink in. There would be no respite from Heaven, no mercy for the Egyptians, for the ones who went about their lives and had no power, no say over what their King did. Where not all humans children of God? Didn’t they deserve mercy? Heaven didn’t _care_. They’d probably never even seen humans up close before. Not really. Not properly. Why should they be bothered that they suffered? 

No one would listen to him. No one cared. 

Bitterness crept into his heart, grief and rage and a heavy hopelessness weighing him down as he walked. He pulled his robe closer about himself, the wind whipping it around with the sand, chafing against his skin.

Those he had thought were his friends had as good as cast him out. He was already twice disgraced, once for failing to keep a demon out of the garden and again for loosing his sword. Who in Heaven would care what he thought? He had no power. His rank was a joke, and for all that he was considered an expert on humans it meant very little if they didn’t listen to him when it mattered. 

There was no place for him in Heaven. Not really. Not after this. Earth was all he had and even that they could take from him.

He’d tried to stick it out, tried to stay back and help the humans as best he could without being allowed to directly interfere. It was a nightmare. Aziraphale had never been to Hell but if pressed to describe how he thought it was like, he’d think back to those horrible days for inspiration.

When the final plague of Darkness fell, bringing death to every unmarked door he’d started walking. 

It was quiet now. Stars lit up the night sky, a glittering, dazzling tapestry, as if the horrors of the last days were only some strange dream and not the cruel reality twisted around the angel’s soul, haunting his steps and dragging him down, numbing his body, each stumbling step more difficult than the last.

He felt _wrong_ , all twisted up and hurting, horribly, utterly alone.

Finally atop a dune he stopped. The wind swept across the desert, catching up sand and blowing his dark curls around his face.

With a _thump_ his knees hit the sand. 

Aziraphale was not one to pray. Angels were meant to carry out God’s will. It was not their place to petition him. But then, angels weren’t supposed to live on earth, so far from the radiant glory of Heaven, cut off from the communion of the Host. Not for any length of time. And Aziraphale had never felt so abandoned, so terribly alone and betrayed as he did now.

Raising his head, he looked to the sky and reached out, calling upon his Father.

“Why did you let this happen?” 

His voice was small, swallowed up by the night, by the sand and the vastness of the heavens. 

“They weren’t all bad. Why should they all suffer for the sins of the few? Is Heaven not merciful?” His voice cracked. “Are we not…not better than this? It’s wrong. It’s _wrong_. I don’t understand… I can’t understand.”

And then quieter. 

“Am I…wrong? I don’t—don’t want to doubt.” His breath hitched. “But how can I not? How can I be an angel if I cannot trust Heaven? How can I _forgive_ this?” he whispered, voice harsh with grief and pain. 

“They don’t care. Not about Earth, not about humans.”

_Not about me_ , he finished silently.

He swallowed with difficultly, the ache in his chest growing, weighing him down like a stone around his neck. Above him the stars shone bright and cold and cruel.

“Was I supposed to fall? Am I supposed to be alone? Am I…am I _meant_ to fall? I don’t want to. I don’t _want_ to, please. Help me. Send me some guidance, some reassurance. Send me some sign.”

Everything felt so cold, his whole body numbed, shutting down. A horrible certainty rose up within him. Falling. He was going to Fall. He squeezed his eyes shut, terror seizing his limbs, a desperate cry forming deep within.

“Please…please help me…I don’t want to Fall. I don’t want to feel like this…”

 

Time passed. 

It could have been hours, all he knew was that he knelt in the sand beneath the great dome of the stars, praying for some sign, some respite from his horrible fate, _anything_ , some meager comfort for a wayward angel, struggling to find meaning alone in the world.

No answer came.

Slowly his form crumpled, bent, bowed against the weight in his chest, growing stronger with every painful beat of his heart, blotting out the light in his soul, drowning him like water in his lungs. 

Was there no mercy? 

Always there had been something inside of him that believed in the Ineffable, had faith in God and Heaven. He could feel it dimming, dying out with a physical, terrifying ache, drowning, choking. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He’d heard of what happened to angels who Despaired. Some Fell and became wraiths, terrible beings incapable of feeling anything other than their desperate loss, despair wrapped around them like a cloud, infecting all humans they passed.

Others simply faded, divinity bleeding out along with their immortal souls, simply ceasing to exist, nothing left to mark them but an empty vessel to crumble into so much dust.

Aziraphale fought back a sob, each wavering beat of his heart sluggish, painful and slow. 

He was so scared. He was so tired. He didn’t want this to happen. He didn’t know how to stop it.

“Please…” he whispered, voice lost to the night and whistling wind.

Eyes stinging, he stared duly at the ground. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t feel them anymore. A tear slid down his cheek, pooling for a moment, suspended gossamer and silver in the starlight before falling noiselessly to the ground, swallowed up by the grit of the sand.

It was cold. Colder then he had ever known. 

_Please_ …

 

There was a sound off to his left.

Footsteps. Someone was coming, pace quickening to a run.

He knew he should be concerned. His wings were out and half crumbled around him. It could be a human. It could be a demon. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

An aura reached out and brushed against his own, startlingly familiar. His eyes flickered, unable to muster up enough energy to do more. 

He felt so heavy…

The footsteps stopped. A body dropped down beside his own in the sand.

“… _Angel_.”

Another tear slipped down Aziraphale’s cheek, a sob struggling to break out. Biting his lip, he turned his head just slightly to the side. 

It was Crowley. The demon knelt beside him, just close enough to brush his shoulder.

Aziraphale swallowed painfully, his body beginning to shake. He couldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t want Crowley to see him like this, shaking apart, falling in slow motion. 

An arm curled around his shoulder, tugging him closer, up and against his side. The angel shuddered at the line of warmth, unable to stop himself from leaning into the friendly touch. He could feel the panic coming off Crowley in waves, grief and anger, just barely held in place by a fierce concern. 

Another tear slipped down his cheek, absorbed instantly by the sand.

“They’ve stopped now.” Crowley’s voice was quiet, devoid of any of its usual cockiness. “The plagues. The Pharaoh’s relented.”

It was cold comfort. The deed had already been done. 

“…How could they?” Aziraphale’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. Dregs of anger flared up inside him, making a last ditch effort to bring some warmth into his body, some life. “How _could_ they?”

Crowley’s arm tightened around him. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

They stayed that way, Crowley sitting quietly, arm firm around his shoulders, Aziraphale drinking in his presence, clinging to it desperately as despair threatened to pull him under.

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was gentle, carefully so. “Have you thought of taking some time off?”

“W-what?” Aziraphale managed, nearly choking around a sob.  
Crowley rubbed his back soothingly. “You know. Time off. Going back Upstairs, calling in your vacation time. Picking up the old harp and all. You know, that old gig.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up mirthlessly. “I did go Up. I tried.” He swallowed around a lump. “Oh Crowley, I _tried_ to stop them.” 

For some reason it was terribly important that he know this. That Crowley—perhaps the only other person who cared for the Earth as he did—knew that he had tried to spare them, had tried to save the people of Egypt.

He raised his head with difficulty, meeting Crowley’s eyes. They glowed faintly yellow in the dark, slitted and snakelike, so familiar, _safe_ , in a way no angel should find them to be. “They wouldn’t listen. They don’t-don’t _care_. There’s—“

There was no one Up There who cared about him.

Turning his face back to the ground two tears slid down his cheeks in quick succession. A high sound of misery caught in the back of his throat. 

“I-I don’t know how I can…”

Crowley continued to rub soothing circles into his back. The pain in his chest throbbed, heavy and dark, _hungry_ , filling his lungs, curling around his heart and pulling, dragging him down.

_You’re Falling_ , it taunted him. _And no one will miss you when you do._

“Hey. Hey! Stay with me, Aziraphale!” 

The sharp note of alarm in Crowley’s voice cut through the darkness that had stolen away his vision. He blinked sluggishly, struggling to focus. Crowley was shaking him, something terrified and desperate in his face. 

“Does it—does it hurt?” Aziraphale managed. “Falling.” 

Sharp fingers clenched in the cloth of his robe. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, a quiet anger in his voice. “Yeah, it does.” Aziraphale swayed, a tremor passing through him. Crowley held him steady, hands firm on his shoulders, keeping him afloat. “There was the burning. The severing. The literal falling and landing. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”

Even in his state he was aware that Crowley was bearing something very personal. His voice held none of his usual bravado, no trace of irony or irreverence. Again he felt the brush of the demon’s aura tentatively curling around his own, seeking to protect, to comfort, to sooth. There was no smugness there, no enjoyment at his pain, no hint of cruelty. Instead was something very warm and very powerful.

“It was the betrayal. The confusion,” he continued. “That was the kicker. I thought Morningstar was going to help us. Turned out he didn’t care about anyone but himself and was happy to let us all burn for the sake of his pride. The others were quick to cast us all out and brand us as traitors. The _damned_. Newly minted as we were.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, memories of that terrible day coming back to him. That was the day his belief in Heaven had first been shaken. How quickly the Host had turned on itself. The fight, yes the fighting, but worse was the justification, the vindictive way the new demons were cast out, disowned and damned by those who had been friends mere hours ago. He shuddered again, grateful for the steady warmth of Crowley against him.

“I didn’t know how to stand it at first.” Something in Crowley’s voice changed, lightened. “And then I came up to Earth. I volunteered, you know. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And the more time I spent up here, the less and less it hurt. Then I stopped thinking about it altogether.” He shrugged. “Why bother when there was so _much_ up here? So many amazing things. It’s better than anything I ever saw in Heaven. ”

And they wanted to destroy it all.

Crowley shifted and the warmth against him was gone. Aziraphale barely bit back a protest, terrified of being alone, being abandoned again to the cold heaviness in his chest trying to pull him under.

There was a heavy sound behind him. He turned. Crowley was laid on his back in the sand, lazily stretching out like the snake he was. Making himself comfortable. As if they were in one of their dwellings, relaxing after a meal on linen sheets, luxuriating in the simple comfort without a care in the world.

“The stars are really something tonight, angel.”

A wave of gratefulness swept over Aziraphale. He wiped a hand across his face. “A-are they?”

“Yeah. Picked a good spot.”

Slowly, haltingly, Aziraphale lowered himself so he was sprawled stiffly out next to Crowley, curled slightly towards him. Above them the stars glimmered brightly, fierce against the night sky, lighting it up as well as the moon would have. Aziraphale stared up at them and felt a tear slide down his face, lit up under the splendour of it all.

“You can’t see this anywhere else,” said Crowley. “We don’t get much of a view in Hell, aside from tar pits and the lakes of fire. No stars in Heaven either, just endless sunlight. Nah. Earth has the best of it, take it from me.”

Aziraphale blinked. “It does,” he said, realizing it was true.

A star shot across the sky. Falling. Falling to earth in fire and splendour…

Crowley made a small noise beside him. “Well, look at that. S’ good luck.”

“Hn?”

“They say if you make a wish on a shooting star, it will come true.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That’s a nice idea.”

“No. No it isn’t. It encourages greed and sloth.”

A tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Some might say faith.”

“They might. But they’d be wrong. Trust me, I know.”

“If you say so.”

Crowley nudged him. “Come on then, what’s your wish?”

Above him the stars swam and blurred, stretching out into long glittering shapes. He wiped at his eyes, blinking the moisture away.

A wish…

Such a human idea. But then, humans had so little control over things. Why shouldn’t they make up such tales, why shouldn’t they try to give a bit of hope, a bit of beauty to a world that could be so cruel to them, so indifferent? 

He shut his eyes and felt the aura resting against his own, steady and warm, so anxious, so concerned on his behalf, holding the gnawing darkness at bay, holding him steady. 

“So? What did you wish for?”

Aziraphale smiled, a slow soft thing. He let out a sigh, his breaths beginning to ease, the awful feeling in his chest beginning to loosen. It hurt, but perhaps…perhaps it was a good sort of pain. The sand was firm underneath him, steady, cradling him in a cool embrace. It could hold his weight. It wouldn’t let him fall.

And neither, he realized, would Crowley.

“If I tell you it won’t come true,” he murmured.

“Ah, foiled again,” muttered Crowley. Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice.

He took a long slow breath, and then another. Each was a little bit easier than the last.

“Look.” Crowley’s hand rose in the air. He traced a shape with it. “You see those stars there?”

Aziraphale blinked, the wetness in his eyes making the stars all blur. “Is that…”

“Old Swanky the Snake, yeah.”

He laughed wetly, startling himself. “There’s no such constellation.”

“Yes there is, it’s right _there_. See? Right next to Huruk the Endowed.”

“ _Crow_ ley.”

Something between a laugh and a sob wracked Aziraphale’s frame. He turned further onto his side, rolling fully to face Crowley, resting there against the sand. 

He was drained, exhausted. Completely worn out. He could breathe again.

An arm snaked around him, drawing him in closer. Gratefully he rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, a tear slipping down his cheek, this time in exhausted gratitude.

“There now,” whispered Crowley. His hand reached out unthinkingly, fingers gently brushing the tear away.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t—!”

Crowley froze, realizing what he had just done*. They both stared at the water glistening on his long fingers in horror, expecting them to burn and sizzle. 

*Angel tears were a bit like holy water in that they acted very similarly to acid when coming into contact with a demon. 

Nothing happened.

“Are you all right?” asked Aziraphale, anxiously searching his friend for any sign of pain.

“…Yeah.” Crowley stared incredulously at his hand. “Fine.” A disbelieving grin tugged at his mouth.

Aziraphale let out a long sigh. He slumped back down, dizzy with relief. He smiled sadly. “I suppose I’m not much of an angel anymore.”

Crowley made a disproving sound. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. Maybe I’ve built up immunity.”

“I hope so. Hope you have.”

Maybe Aziraphale wasn’t very holy. Maybe Crowley wasn’t very _un_ holy. And maybe it wasn’t chance at all that Crowley had found him, alone and desperate, begging for help under the desert night sky.

“It’d be your fault if I have,” murmured Crowley, putting his arms about him, tugging him in against his chest. Aziraphale curled into Crowley, taking the comfort that was so readily offered, starved for touch and affection, utterly worn out.

Aziraphale didn’t indulge in sleep, but that night he did, safe in the arms and care of a demon. When he woke, the sun was rising and a cloak was spread over him, soft fabric pillowing his head from the coarse sand. 

Crowley was watching the sun rise red and gold and glorious over the dunes when Aziraphale rose to join him. He offered him half a pomegranate and a smile, something so unbearably hopeful, so beautiful about him in that moment that it shook Aziraphale to his core.

Maybe he couldn’t trust Heaven. Perhaps his belief had faced a terrible blow.

But there was still hope. There was still the Earth, and there were still humans, to guide and to watch over and to enjoy in what they created.

And he wasn’t alone. There was still something to believe in, someone he could trust.

Aziraphale never truly trusted Heaven again. Not Heaven the Institution, not the Host and the bureaucracy of it all. But he remained an angel, and kept his faith in the Ineffable. 

After all, what further proof did he need of ineffability than a demon who had befriended him, had stuck by him time and again, proved his worth in a thousand little ways, saved him from Falling, and shown him more loyalty and _love_ than he had ever found from Above?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] No Place In Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589644) by [miss_echidna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_echidna/pseuds/miss_echidna)




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